Beacon
by nonotthatone
Summary: Clex, one-shot. Lex watches; Clark waits.


Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

A/N: a vague reference to _Devoted_ places this sometime in S4.

Please blame the delicious David Cook's "Light On," which got me thinking in the first place.

* * *

Beacon

There is a spot from the road where you can see the light on in the Kent's hayloft. Lex knows that spot well; his late-night drives take him there more often than not.

Time was that Lex could see that light as an invitation and simply turn into the well-worn drive, find a spot to park between the tractor and Clark's pickup, and bound up the stairs to the loft as quickly as his facade of dignity would allow. Clark would have recognized the purr of his engine and the rhythm of his footsteps, and would be waiting there to greet him with a grin.

Lex mourns for that time as he idles on the dusty shoulder, gazing at the light glinting across the nighttime fields. He can sense a hesitation in Clark's smile now, something he fears is suspicion or distaste or worse. And though Clark has never said as much – and Lex knows he is probably just letting paranoia get the better of him – he isn't sure he's really welcome in the loft anymore.

Lex feels himself slipping; every day the darkness in his mind closes in a little more. He feels it as surely as the beating of his own heart, the rush of air in his lungs. He feels it with the same panicked certainty that he feels Clark pulling away from him. But they don't talk about it, as friends probably should.

He already told Clark once, about the shadows and what his friendship means. And maybe pride is a sin, but he shouldn't have to keep saying it.

Besides, Lex is fairly sure that they've passed the point now where words could really change anything. He has more questions than rhetoric or science or philosophy will ever answer to his satisfaction. He thinks Clark could even turn to him and say "I love you," and he would still get back into the Porsche and drive off into the night. Not that those words wouldn't hold meaning – quite the contrary, Lex can't even express how he's longed to hear Clark say he loves him. But he's not sure even that could save him now.

He closes his eyes and tightens his hands against the steering wheel, and tries not to think of Clark's green eyes, those large warm hands and his own desperate wish for salvation.

Lex believes in Clark the way he believes in God – as a distant, abstract force, capable of great benevolence and mercy but seemingly arbitrary in how he chooses to bestow them. Or maybe not it's not arbitrary at all – maybe Lex is just too stubbornly hopeful to see the truth. Maybe Clark has already decided Lex isn't deserving of grace. Maybe it frustrates him to receive Lex's tributes and know they must be denied … like it must frustrate God to have to endure all those unanswerable prayers.

Lex's devotions are honest, as much as he is capable of honesty. But even that guarantees him nothing, for neither God nor Clark are fair.

Still, the light in the loft shines like a lamp of possibility, and Lex finds that just driving past late at night and seeing it brings him comfort. He even imagines that Clark has left it burning for him, a beacon to guide him home. Though all their unspoken secrets fall between them like shadows and ash, the light from Clark's loft window and the hope it inspires are naked in their intensity; even across the distance of nighttime fields, Lex finds he can warm himself in the glow.

That idea keeps him coming back here, night after night and long after a seemly visiting hour has passed. He lingers at the roadside, drinks in the constancy of that light and allows himself to think that maybe Clark is there beneath it, thinking too of him. He clings to hope that its faithfulness can make him brave again, that by its aid he can find his way across treacherous depths and a rocky shore and back to Clark's side.

It just won't be tonight.

-

More nights than not, Clark's ears make out the thrumming of Lex's engine as he pauses on the roadside. He tries not to listen for it, but he hears it just the same.

He wishes he could hear Lex's thoughts too, so he could understand why he lingers but ultimately drives on. It's frustrating, and Clark is tired of kicking crates and hay bales. If Lex has something to say, Clark wishes he'd just turn down the beaten farm drive, climb the barn stairs like he used to and talk to him.

Clark wishes anything could be like it used to be.

Lex is sifting through his fingers now like sand; but Clark is afraid to tighten his grip, afraid that it might make Lex slip away all the faster. Clark has wracked his brain for some seed of a plan, something he could do to push off this feeling of failing, but no flash of genius ever comes. And he hates himself for his inaction, but he also cannot risk anything that might shorten the time until the end.

The end – because he can't help the cold certainty that Lex is leaving him. That every conversation now is just another footfall in that direction. Clark isn't ready – doesn't think he'll ever be ready – to let him go. So even though it hurts, let the leaving take as long as it will ... let him have as much time as he can to savor Lex before he goes. Please, God or Jor-El or anyone – please give him that much.

Clark wants to drop all their pretensions, to just open his mouth and for once to tell and be told exactly what this is between them, and what it means. At night when he hears Lex idling on the side of the road that runs past the west pasture, Clark feels brave and desperate enough that if Lex would just come and see him like he used to, he could find the courage to ask that question. But he doesn't … and Clark can't bring himself to walk out to the road to meet him. The things he wants to say to Lex now can't be couched in lies about how he knew to find him there.

So he leaves the light on in the loft, even after he's finished his homework and his chores and has exhausted all his other excuses not to go inside to bed. He leaves it on all night, and all day too sometimes; he's burned through bulb after bulb. It's all right though; he's got a box of them kicked under the sofa and out of sight, and he makes sure Jonathan never notices how often they need replacing.

Lex has always been heavy-handed in his metaphors, so Clark can't help but think he would appreciate this sort of gesture. He lets his last hopes hang upon the fact that Lex must see the light from the road; with no streetlamps and the house already dark with sleep, it must be the only thing shining out here so late, besides the moon and stars. So it must attract Lex's eye, and he must realize where the glow originates. It can't be hard to draw his thoughts from there.

If he can draw Lex's thoughts hard enough, the body might follow. And if Lex would only come to him …

Clark places one hand on the edge of the hayloft door and sighs tiredly, squinting against the darkness towards the idling car that he can hear but not see. He is not some ever-faithful lover from a fairy tale; he doesn't like to think that he is waiting.

But even as he collects his books and thuds down the stairs for the night, he doesn't switch the light off. He lets it burn on into the night, constant, welcoming, pure.


End file.
